


Surprises

by TheProducersHat



Category: The Producers (1968), The Producers (2005)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25894975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheProducersHat/pseuds/TheProducersHat
Summary: Surprises can be a blessing and a curse. For Leo, it has mostly been the latter. Still, things can turn around when you least expect it; can something change his bad luck? A short Producers story based on a prompt :)
Relationships: Leo Bloom - Relationship, Max Bialystock/Leopold "Leo" Bloom
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Surprises

Everything surprises me.

That's the bonus of having low expectations; expect nothing and people will surpass it with ease. High expectations are just a one way ticket to resentment and I, for one, can't live that way. Max remembers to turn the bathroom light off before bed, I'm happy. He takes out the trash after only being asked twice, I'm thrilled. He puts his dirty dishes in the dishwasher without a prompt and I'm ready to jump to the moon. Low expectations, the secret ticket to being happy.

Even today, which I am told is a special day, I don't expect much. To me, it's just another Tuesday. Although exactly a year ago, it wasn't _just_ another Tuesday. Not at all, for I remember the date exactly. The 16th of June; the day I both met and started working with Max, turning my whole world upside down yet making it so much better. I later learned that it had been Bloomsday; how ironic is that?

Well, today is no Bloomsday, although Max likes to call it as such. It _is_ a Tuesday, and it _is_ June, but it's the 21st. It's my day. My birthday.

And for the first time in many years, I am rather excited by the fact, for I've never really celebrated it with friends or even family. A handshake and luke-warm congratulations from someone who happened to remember was usually the case, sometimes followed by a dessert or a milkshake in the Upper East Side's Lexington Candy Shop. Not that I minded it much, for it was calm and I knew what to expect each year. And besides, I didn't see a reason for celebrations anyway.

However, this year the routine was bound to change, just as many other aspects of my life. I knew Max wanted to make it a big deal; a party I would never forget. Though being honest, I'd expect the very opposite from such an event. With Max being the organisator, it was certain that there would be more alcohol present than Africa had seen of water in years, therefore it would be a miracle if any of us remembered anything the next morning.

Well, that was Max's plan. _My_ plan, though, didn't differ much from the previous years. I simply wished for a few nice words and a pleasant evening in our apartment, sharing a glass of champagne with Max. Alright, I wouldn't mind a cake, either.

Still, Max insisted, and so did the rest of my friends. It feels so strange to even think about it. My friends. I have _friends_. In the plural form. Rather shocking, at least for my past self. So anyway, we made a compromise.

After the rehearsals are over, we agreed to make a small gathering in the DeBris household, close friends only. On another thought, perhaps agreeing is too strong of a word. Max grudgingly admitting defeat would be a better term. But I am content that way. Although I'd still prefer to keep it as small as possible, a private event sounds harmless.

I look up as I hear a chair creak next to me.

"Where are you going?" I ask with what I hope is an easy smile.

"Ah, just this." Max waves a stack of papers in front of my face. "Casting submissions," he seems to think for a moment, looks over at Roger, then back to me, handing me the documents. "Actually, mind bringing it to him?"

I look at him strangely but take it nonetheless, chuckling at his distracted demeanor. He barely mutters a thank you and disappears in the backstage before I can inquire further.

I get up and make my way towards the stage. Just in that short distance, I get more birthday wishes from groups of chorus girls and actors than I've probably gotten through my entire lifetime. How sad is that? I don't know how to respond to it, so I barely offer a flustered smile, trying to get to my destination without looking rude. It's not that I'm not flattered, it's just terribly unfamiliar. I don't remember going around and telling everyone my birth date, either; I assume that to be Max's doing.

I almost reach Roger, when I feel two arms encircle my waist from behind, almost sending me straight into cardiac arrest. Truth is, I'm not too fond of surprises. I yelp, dropping the papers that Max had so trustingly put into my possession, counting on me to deliver them unharmed. A terrible waste of faith, really.

"Surprise!" I hear a familiar voice exclaim into my ear. "How is the birthday boy today?"

"Old," I reply with a chuckle and relax, recognizing the attacker.

"Aw, in what version of reality?" Carmen releases me and looks me up and down, never losing his grin. "You're thriving. Our ray of sunshine behind these grey walls!"

I have to laugh, for I would never think to describe myself as anything remotely close to the sun. I always saw myself to be more of a thundercloud. Disaster-bearing and just plain annoying to the passersby.

"Admit it, 36 is dangerously close to 40," I complain, though I appreciate the compliment. Again, I just don't know how to respond to it. "Next thing I know, I'll be having a mid-life crisis…"

"Oh dear, has Max inflicted that cynicism upon you or have I just not noticed it before?" Carmen cocks an eyebrow and busies his left hand with his chains.

"I'm afraid the line blurs at this point."

"I'm afraid so, too," Carmen jeers, looking around with a fond smirk. In that moment he seems to notice the mess that he's partly responsible for. We both bend down to collect the paperwork at the same moment.

"Ah, I got it," Carmen almost bats my hands away. I chuckle and let him do it himself, for he looks quite insistent. And I know better than to argue with Carmen's stubbornness.

"What's that?" He flips through the stack curiously, glancing at me shortly.

"Nothing important. Just some submissions for Roger," I start for it again. "May I?"

Once more, Carmen refuses, holding it away from my reach. I let my hands fall, rather bemused now.

"Don't bother, I'll do it," he waves his hand, striding over to Roger with a spring in his step. As I look after him, I can't help but wonder whether being treated like an incompetent royalty is a usual part of this birthday furor or if it's just them.

Amused, I shake my head, walking back to my respectable spot behind the desk. Of course, I don't make it far.

"Leo!" This time, it's Scott who almost dances his way through the theatre, waving his hands wildly as he practically jumps over furniture to get to me. What's in the air today? Finally he reaches me, a little out of breath as he holds out a little scrap of paper. "Leo, dear, could you bring this to the costume room? Kevin will be there, he'll know what to do with it…"

"Oh, sure, but-" When I look up from the little card, Scott is already halfway on the other side of the auditorium. Puzzled, I glance around for a hint as to what is the meaning of this relay game they all seem to be playing, but suddenly no one is paying me any attention. I shrug to myself and do as I'm told.

I've never particularly fancied going to the backstage by myself, for the corridors are narrow and dark. Not to mention full of spiders and God knows what else might be lurking there. Nonetheless, I proceed swiftly, reaching the costume storage in no time. Once there, I creak the door open, closing it behind me carefully.

"Kevin?" I call into the seemingly empty room. Only my echo answers. I frown, turning in circles to try and spot the costume designer, but see no one. My first thought is that maybe he had gone already, but then again, the light is on; Kevin always makes sure to switch it off before leaving.

How strange. A shiver runs down my spine, but I decide to ignore the uneasy feeling. This unusual behaviour of the crew surely has a reason, even though, it's not so unusual after all. They've always been a little… Confusing, for lack of a better word. I sigh and look down at the card in my hand, trying to decipher Scott's lanky handwriting.

"Row 13, rack 5, hanger 2," I mutter to myself.

Probably directions for where to find the needed costume. Well, as incompetent as I might seem, I think I can do that. Collecting the correct clothes and finding Kevin doesn't seem like such an impossible task. Without further consideration, I make my way through all the rows, which turns out to be quite the labyrinth, trying to spot number 13. After what seems like an eternity, I finally find the correct row, making a mental note to ask someone to rearrange it in here. I reach for a rather revealing floral dress hanging on the 5th rack.

But just as my fingers barely brush the soft material, the lights go out. I whirl around, my eyes darting through the room but seeing nothing.

"Kevin?" I ask the blackness again, panicked this time. Again, no answer.

Against my better judgement, my heart starts racing. I feel like a child who's too scared of the dark to switch off the bedside lamp yet, but that isn't the case. I've seen darkness before, the kind that makes the streets look like a polaroid photograph, everything a shade of grey. I'm not afraid of that; at times, it can even be more inviting than direct sunlight. Well, this isn't like that. This is the darkness that robs you of your best sense and replaces it with a paralysing fear. I almost expect some sort of a terrifying birthday clown jump out any second. I swear to whatever God might be listening up there, if something or someone were to touch me right now, that would be it. The end.

'Producer Leopold Bloom found dead in the costume room of the Shubert theatre, at the tender age of 36.' Fit for the frontpage of New York Times.

I take several deep breaths to calm myself and close my eyes, which is, in the pitch black, a very useless action. I can't hear anything either. I guess that should bring my heart rate down below the level of "rabbit in a snare" but it doesn't. By my genes I may be a predator; I have the front facing eyes and brain enough to hunt, but I feel like the prey in this utter black. But then again, I feel like the prey most of the time.

Still, I want to see tomorrow enough to try and will my cramped muscles to move towards the exit, so I do. After all, I don't feel like dying on my birthday, even though it would have been quite poetic.

Painfully slowly, I maneuver myself through the endless racks, using the costumes for guidance. I trip over my own feet several times, but after good 10 minutes of what felt like walking in circles, I'm finally met with the cold stone of a wall beneath my palm. I press myself against it quickly, trusting it to lead me to the light switch and end this horror-like experience. This is normally the moment where the protagonist gets attacked by the monster and, in the better case scenario, dies. The worse case would probably be the exit magically disappearing, consequently trapping them in the room for all eternity.

Yes, these thoughts are totally helping.

As I'm nearing the exit- or at least _hoping_ I am- I feel something jostle my hair lightly. Startled anew, I jump back, attempting to swat whatever the hell that was away. Of course, I find nothing. Maybe it was just a coweb. Or a spider on a coweb. Or I've just imagined it. Needless to say, neither of those possibilites is too calming; I'm either going insane or have a spider in my hair.

Mildly disgusted, I shiver and proceed. Sure enough, it wasn't a one-time incident. The moment I step forward, several more string-like objects brush against my forehead; that's where I snap. Mindlessly lunging myself into the darkness, my hands searching the wall frantically, I finally come upon what feels like a door. I'd have screamed for joy, if fate didn't have one more surprise in store. At this point, I'm certain; I do _not_ like surprises.

I rattle the handle once. I rattle it twice. The third time, I kick the door in frustration. It's locked. Freaking _locked._

Just my luck. Honestly, I'm not even shocked. Defeated and exasperated, I laugh humourlessly and let my head fall back against the wall.

I hear a click.

And just as quickly as the room had been plunged into darkness, it's set back alight. It's suddenly too bright as I squint my eyes, trying to gather what had just happened. Dumbfounded, I turn around warily. Apparently, I had found the switch. Well, my head did.

Still rather shaken, I slowly dare to look up at the ceiling. At first, I don't gather what it is that I'm seeing. The strings were… balloons? Yes. Those are balloons. Tons of colorful, shiny, glittery balloons clinging to the ceiling. Seriously?

Between the sea of color, there's one that stands out. It's the biggest one in the room, gold and decorated by a giant blue bow, with a piece of paper attached to the end of it. I almost start laughing, but I'm perplexed. And now also fairly curious. I push the other strings aside, making my way towards what now I recognize to be a small envelope.

Opening it with shaking fingers, I read the short message written on it in golden ink. Wow, someone went to great lengths to make this impressive.

 _'Row 21, rack 6, hanger 24_ , _'_ it says.

I frown, for those numbers look somehow familiar. And then it occurs to me.

Today it's the 21st. 6 is for the 6th month of the year; June. 24 stands for 1924.

21st June 1924. My birthday.

I smile, the initial frustration subsiding, yet I can't resist rolling my eyes. A habit I seem to have acquired the longer I spent my time with Max. Still, this is incredibly thoughtful.

As I wonder who is responsible for this, my mind immediately tips towards Max, but somehow this is too much even for him. Not the scaring me half to death part; that definitely bears his signature. It's the flamboyant balloon decor that makes me confused.

I'm almost ready to follow the instructions when I notice small letters in the lower corner of the paper. It says: _'turn over.'_

I do as I'm told.

_'Stop rolling your eyes! Do you know how much balloons cost?'_

At this, I burst out laughing openly. Alright, this is definitely Max's doing. Without further hesitation, I wander through the maze again, until I find the right spot.

With bated breath, I take the hanger off the rack, eyes widening at what I'm met with. A cherry red tuxedo with satin lapels and a prominent double B embroidered on the breast pocket. I stare at it in awe, stroking over the material gently. It's velvet, I note, when a glimmer catches my eye. Pushing one lapel aside curiously, I discover a hidden pocket with a silver chain hanging out of it. I pull it out, only to be shocked anew.

In my left hand, I clutch an incredibly expensive looking pocket watch so polished, I'm almost afraid to touch it. Opening it with great care, I almost jump in excitement; I've always wanted one. Inside, it's what you'd expect a pocket watch to look like; roman numbers and fancy clock hands. On the inner part of the watch, though, a small photo is enclosed.

I gasp slightly, inspecting it.

It's me and Max on what seems to be the closing night of High Button Jews. I smile widely at the memory. It must have been taken whilst Max was saying one of his infamous witty remarks, for I seem to be entertained to the point of crying, trying to cover my mouth with one hand while Max has one arm around my shoulders, looking extremely amused himself.

Before I even realize it, I feel tears drip on my hands, silently laughing at the same time. Whether it's from the relief of not having been eaten by a monster in the costume room or the emotion awoken by this touching gesture, I can't be sure.

Before I can figure it out, I hear the door unlock behind me as more light streams inside, but I don't have to look to know who entered.

"Surprise," Max states simply, but I can hear the smile in his voice. Wiping over my face with a sleeve once, I turn around.

He leans against the doorway, hands clasped under his armpits as he stares back at me smugly, looking incredibly pleased with his work.

"I-" My voice cracks with emotion as I try to cover it up with a cough, but I can't stop smiling. "I don't know what to say…"

"Really?" Max chuckles, but doesn't move from his spot. "You're not too traumatized to talk, are you?"

"Well, we'll have to see about the aftermaths still," I laugh through my tears, since I'm unable to stop them. "But balloons? Really? No offense, but I would expect at least a killer clown from you…"

"Oh, don't be fooled." Max waves a hand dismissively. "Balloons and glitter were a collective idea of, you guessed it, Roger and co… I have to take credit for the dark, the trap and the gifts, though," he adds with a smirk.

"I think you mean 'blame'," I smirk back.

"Whatever you prefer, birthday boy…"

I shake my head unbelievingly, for this man's bluntness never ceases to astound me. I wouldn't want him to be any other way, though.

"Right now, I don't know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge…" I keep shaking my head, laughing.

"Can I pick?" Max asks daringly, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, since I'm the 'birthday boy'..." I reply in the same tone and walk over to him, leaving the gifts behind for the moment. "I think the decision is mine." Grabbing him by the lapels, I pull him inside, switching the lights off in the same motion.

Maybe surprises aren't such a bad thing.


End file.
